The Taste of Blood
by connorfemway
Summary: The grip of the noose is hardly the only thing to worry about, especially when you've been keeping secrets. Fem!Connor


"Can you rewrite the hanging scene with Fem!Connor instead?"

and

"What's one of the worst times you've found yourself to be in trouble?"

A reply to two asks on the ask blog **connorfemway** on tumblr.

Enjoy.

* * *

Blood, in this moment, tastes sour. Much like defeat.

A white shirt clings desperately to ice cold skin. Droplets of rain fall from a protruding lower lip. Its quiver is suppressed only by determination.

As the stage comes into view, the actor wonders what the many eyes in the crowd think.

It was not just a matter of life or death any longer, but one of deceit revealed. If she did not need to remain strong, the Assassin might shed tears at the horrible thought. The many men and few women who stood in this crowd amongst the angry masses, who knew her face but not her body, would see the truth today.

The thought of subtle betrayal numbs senses, blocks out the cold induced by the rain.

The guards that stand at either side of her wear stony faces. Those in the crowd shout as she passes through the gate into the square, the stage in full view.

Ropes dangle heavily with the weight of this rain. Connor sees herself in them, sees their struggle. As confident as she tried to be, as she had spit the callous words Hickey's way, even she could not believe she would escape this alive.

A gasp falls past her lips, head snapping to the left as a man emerges from the raving crowd to spit in her face. The next moment she is knocked to the ground by a well-planted fist upon her jaw. The woman holds her fist up to the air, and a kick connects with the Assassin's abdomen while she is down.

Blood and mud mix in her mouth. Her tongue bleeds and stains her lips a vibrant red. Coughing erupts to clear the airways and produces more of the thick, red substance that kept life flowing through her veins. A shadow leans down over her, but it is not the assailant.

"You are not alone here," a familiar voice beckons.

A pair of weary brown eyes move up to meet a dark face. It carries the slightest traces of worry behind the overlying confidence.

Even Achilles had his silent doubts.

Connor's brows pull upwards in disbelief as a guard grabs her arm and hauls her to her feet. She struggles to keep her wrists crossed, the rope torn away much earlier and with ease.

Black hair is plastered to a pale face. Tiny, dark eyes fill the withering Assassin with a deep-rooted hatred. Charles Lee wears a smirk upon his lips, eyes planted so firmly upon the native woman that she can feel them sinking into her skin, burning her from the inside out. How desperately she wanted to wrap her hands around his throat, strangle the life out of his wicked body.

But no, there was no escaping this fate now. There were too many patrolmen, too many blue coats. Those whom she had thought to support her were suddenly against her, and so was this whole world she had fought for.

With a grunt, she is shoved towards the steps up to the stage. The gallows hover over her head like death incarnate. And that's what they were.

The buildings within view stand so tall, so foreboding in the distance. Turned away from the crowd, Connor allows her lip to tremble with the cold and the blood and the mud and the grief that these would be the last steps she would walk, and the last view she would see before it was her time.

This towering city loom so tall all around her, and it is an entity she begins to wish she had never come to see or know.

A head shakes furiously to be rid of these poisonous thoughts, but it was impossible. With death looming moments, feet away, Connor felt that she was losing control of her mind.

The shadow of a woman appears close to the rightmost hanging noose, a guard at each side of her. Blood trickles down her chin. Mud spots her already darkened skin, remaining despite the rain. Dried blood is loosened beneath her torn fingernails. Dark hair sticks to a hardened face, chiseled with brief starvation and impending doom. A brief wind blows through, but it only works to slant the rain into the native woman's face.

And this crowd, this was it. Achilles' face is among the masses, but it is blurred by the raving of many others. In the distance stands George Washington, ignorant of the doom that would befall himself here this day with her death.

As Charles Lee begins to preach words that go unheard by the closest pair of ears, Connor begins to give up hope. A man's hands secure the rope about her neck, tightening it with deft hands. He was skilled at this art, it seemed. Adjusting the rope to not break the neck, but to strangle the target. This would be a painful, scary death. A brief moment is taken to close her eyes tightly, almost afraid of the judgmental gaze of the crowd.

When she opens them again, she spies several other familiar bodies. Those Assassins whose affiliation remained untainted, unbeknownst to the Assassin within the grip of the rope.

She could only hope that they would forgive her mistakes. Forgive the lie that went untold but imposed.

As cloth is slid over her head to block her vision, she just catches the hint of familiar blue in the crowd.

The rain makes the bag cling to her face, and when she sucks in a frightened breath, it clings to her mouth. As though she was drowning beneath the depths of the sea.

But she would never get to see that home again. She would never see the sea or the Aquila again. She would never see her people again. She would never see Kanen'tó:kon, or the many Homesteaders, or her people, ever again.

It's this final thought that has Connor's resolve truly broken. Nothing was happening. Nobody would save her now. Once she fell, she was done.

The voice that fills her head belongs only to Charles Lee. It reminds her of her mother, and she wonders if she will go home to be with her now.

The stage beneath her feet falls, and suddenly it is hard to breathe, and so very painful. Instinct takes over, provoking a cold, bound body to wriggle helplessly within the grip of the gallows.

And this was it, she knew. The darkness impeding so quickly upon her told her so. And she didn't even know what to think, how to think, only that her friends would watch her die and her people would not know and her legacy was over.

The whiz of a throwing knife is not heard by slowly deafening ears. What is heard is the roar of the crowd, just after the sensation of mud upon her skin again, and the new searing ache in her shoulder as she hits the ground.

A pair of hands quiver to life, a body that was prepared for death is suddenly not, and the surprise is overwhelming on a level too unconscious for Connor to ever fully realize.

The bag is pulled from her head with unsteady hands. The severed noose is pulled from around her neck.

"Connor! Go!" that familiar voice calls from a distance. The world is blurry as the Assassin stumbles to her feet.

And she begins to wonder why she ever doubted herself at all.

She was not dead. The crowd was still here. This city hung over them, all around, but unseen. Her body still held life, despite its numbness and the black that now fades from her mind with the coughing and the raspy breaths that enter her past a nearly collapsed airway. Mud cakes her skin, adding to the heaviness that encases her body.

But it is the heaviness of life, and she knows to endure it, as she always has.

When she spots the target take off into the ocean of the crowd, the world crashes back into place so fast that it makes Connor sick to her stomach.

And she runs, instinct rather than consciousness driving her.

With barely focused strength, the Assassin shoves her way past the dumbfounded crowd, bare feet traversing the mud faster than the man ahead of her with heavier boots. Men move into her way to protect their ally, but they are taken down with strength alone. A weapon, a knife, is snatched from one man's grip. Others are slashed as she runs, her skill and instinct beginning to prevail.

Washington stands upon the steps not far away, and Thomas Hickey's blade is almost to him.

But he turns on her at the last moment, in the way only Thomas Hickey could. The glint of the blade in his hand has the Assassin turning a shoulder to him, plowing against him with all of her strength. They meet eyes in this moment, and she is unsure of what to think of the cockiness she finds there in his depraved gaze.

Water splashes up from the concrete as they fall together. A knife is buried into her shoulder, but her own knife is buried into his chest. It twists once, is dragged down, and twisted again. It is only moments that she straddles his body. The cockiness seems to fade, meeting a gaze only an Assassin could wear.

Connor does not notice the General that lingers in the background, a matter of feet away from his true assailant and his now savior. She does not notice him being pulled away by his Colonial soldiers, nor the way his gaze is planted so firmly upon the scene.

As the knife is yanked from the gaping wound laden upon a deadened body, Connor's resolve wavers. She stands upon two shaky legs, a hand reaching up to paw at the new wound upon her already torn, starved body. The knife buried there is pulled out slowly as she listens and speaks words that come to mind as instinctually as her actions.

But Thomas Hickey would never make sense to her. A Templar who was not a Templar, who spoke his last words with as much a laugh as any depraved man.

Unbeknownst to the Assassin who has observed Thomas Hickey's last breaths, a troop of Colonial soldiers have moved up upon the scene, weapons drawn. As the man's eyes fall closed, Connor's own eyes rise to observe those around her. Another threat, but before she can set herself into autopilot, a voice rises up to halt an attack.

"Stand down! Can't you see she's just saved General Washington?"

Only a single man has courage enough to announce the truth. The Assassin turns her head and must refocus her gaze upon the man who approaches. She flinches when his foot connects with the body of the now cold, supposed Templar.

"Stop," she gasps with a voice hoarse, no longer as deep as before. Her gaze moves up to the face of Israel Putnam and she fears what she may see.

There were many emotions she had expected upon his face, but none of them were there.

Instead of the confusion or disgust she had assumed would mar his face, there is, instead, a sort of victory. His usual cockiness, even as he continues to nudge Hickey's body with his foot. He turns his gaze up to his comrade, and it's odd – he looks upon her as though he never doubted her intentions. As though he knew what was really happening at this hanging today in this sullen square, drenched by cold rains.

"This man made an attempt on the General's life," he points out, as though that fact was not obvious enough, "He's scum."

"In life, perhaps. But let him have his death in peace, like any other," she says firmly. Her hand falls from her wounded shoulder, posture is adjusted so she might stand with her usual straightness.

A step is taken backwards by the grizzly-looking man, as though he puzzles over his next move. But then he takes calculated steps around the body towards the Assassin.

"Where is Washington?" she asks, eyes briefly combing the area. The General who had stood wide eyed upon the steps of the closest building was now gone, replaced by an emptiness that inspired worry.

Putnam settles a hand upon the Assassin's shoulder, giving it a firm squeeze. The touch is tolerated, despite its unusual nature. Perhaps it was the recent revelations that provoked such a thing, but it couldn't be puzzled over now. It helps to keep her straightened stance, stabilize her unsteady body.

"Retreated, and now safe," he nods his head with assurance.

Brown eyes comb over Putnam's face before a few steps are taken backwards. Bare feet are cleaned by the concrete she had barely noticed was beneath them.

"No, not yet," the tired nature of these days is present in her voice, but the determination overwhelms it, "He is still in danger. Where has he gone?"

Putnam's brows raise, hand falling back to his side. He doesn't appear surprised – in fact, it's as though he expected this. His eyes move to the body that lies upon the concrete.

"Philadelphia."

Other words are mouthed as the blue coats part their perimeter around the scene to allow the formerly assumed criminal to pass. Something along the lines of 'crazy woman', but that was not unusual of Putnam, who thought Connor was crazy before this anyways.

And it hardly mattered. Even if she was mad, she could not stop.

"They would like to see you."

Connor sits within the cabin of the carriage, quivering legs stretched out upon the bench seat. The red sash worn formerly around her waist is now strung tightly around her shoulder.

"I should never have lied," the voice previously confident is now unsure, doubtful, an unconscious relief of hectic emotion that only this certain man would be allowed to see, "I have deceived them, and now they know."

"They knew already," the old man voices from outside of the cabin, where he sits upon the seat to lead the horses, "One of your recruits spent her life doing just the same as you have done. You think she could not tell?"

Connor's brows pull up, but a moment later she is shaking her head. The doubt, the fear, is hard to shake.

"Philadelphia," she says to him, with determination, "We have no time to stop."

"They will travel with us, Connor," the old man persists, tone as final as it could be, "We need them. You need them. You must confront them with the truth, and allow them to see it, if you hope to mend anything that has been broken which I highly doubt."

It was the truth, and Connor could only let her head fall back upon the wall of the cabin. The rain thundering upon its roof did little to soothe these feelings.

The dark line around her neck causes pain, along with the deep wound in her shoulder. The cold of the rain has enveloped her and will not leave. Shivering wracks her entire body. Composing herself is impossible.

The only comforting thought? That another Templar was gone, and George Washington would live another day.

The carriage pulls to a halt and Connor's stomach leaps and twists about in crazy ways. A hand moves up to rub at her forehead as the clop of horse hooves are heard, separate of their carriage.

The gliding of a tongue quickly over her lips helps pull her back into her right mind. The taste of blood and mud and rain is so bittersweet. When she looks down, her destroyed shirt and pants are speckled with the stuff.

The door to the cabin opens, and curious eyes peer inside. They are wary for reason or another.

As Connor meets them with her own curious brown pair, she can't help but breathe a sigh of relief. These faces, they were familiar, friendly. Instinctively she wraps her arms around herself. The carriage wobbles slightly as Stephane steps into the cabin.

As others join him, and the carriage begins to move again, and a few horses appear alongside them, the Assassin licks nervously at her lips. It's the only thing that comforts her right now.

Because blood, in this moment, is the only reminder of victory over the Templars, and over death itself.


End file.
